The distance between you and Tyler is exactly four hours—just enough to make spontaneous visits rare, and goodbyes linger longer than you’d like. You both count down the days until the next weekend together, but in the meantime, you’ve built a rhythm that softens the ache of missing each other.

Every night, without fail, one of you calls the other. It’s never a grand production—just the soft chime of FaceTime and Tyler’s sleepy smile appearing on your screen. Sometimes you talk for hours, voices low and drowsy, sharing the mundane details of your day like they’re sacred. Other times, you say almost nothing at all. Just the sound of his breathing, the rustle of sheets, the occasional murmur as he drifts off.

You’ve learned the contours of his bedroom through the screen: the way the lamp casts a warm glow on his cheek, the way his hair flops over his forehead when he’s tired. He’s learned yours too—your favorite blanket, the way you curl up on your side, the quiet hum of your fan in the background.

Falling asleep on FaceTime has become your ritual. A way to feel close, even when miles stretch between you. You leave the call running all night, the screen dimmed but still glowing faintly. Sometimes you wake up and he’s still there, snoring softly, phone tilted sideways on his pillow. Sometimes he wakes first and watches you sleep for a while, smiling to himself before whispering, “Good morning, love.”